


Counting Sheep

by inber



Series: Inber's Eskel x Reader Fanfiction [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Cute, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Romance, Scars, Silly, Sweet, goat dad - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:20:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23959819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/pseuds/inber
Summary: This fic was inspired by a prompt from a lovely friend, Apothekemilie. Visit her AO3 for more from this canon!Tending to your sheep in spring is quiet and solitary, until a Witcher and his goat interrupt the steady rhythm of your life. Fluffy and cute! We love Goat Dad!
Relationships: Eskel (The Witcher)/Reader
Series: Inber's Eskel x Reader Fanfiction [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1840096
Comments: 16
Kudos: 156





	Counting Sheep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [apothekemilie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/apothekemilie/gifts).



“Bleater, _no!_ ”

One moment you’re sat in the shade of a sprawling oak tree, fiddling with your lap harp, and the next you have the addition of a rather well-fed goat to contend with. She has absolutely no qualms about trampling all over your skirts in an attempt to get at the apple that you’re munching. The masculine voice that follows in her wake diverts your attention long enough for the creature to neatly snatch the rest of the fruit from your hand.

A man comes into view – no, not a man, you realise. A Witcher. He is betrayed by his immense stature, his two swords, and his molten-gold eyes – which are currently wide as saucers, and filled with regret. When he comes into the shadow of the tree and the sun is no longer behind him, you see the scars on his face, raised red as if still angered by whatever event rent them down the side of his handsome visage. And he _is_ handsome – especially flustered and attempting to wrestle a spoiled goat that clearly has him wrapped around her hoof.

“I am so terribly sorry, my lady.” He rasps, and you realise he doesn’t meet your eyes. You wonder why. The goat bucks gleefully from his grasp, and dances around the trunk of the oak, out of reach. He growls in frustration, and you cannot help but giggle.

“It’s quite alright, Sir Witcher.” You assure him, “I am used to having hooves on my lap.” With a lazy gesture, you point at your well-tended flock, grazing happily at the bottom of the hill. It’s the start of spring, and they are still fluffy and soft with the growth of their coats; it’ll be shearing time soon, and then you’ll truly have your hands full. Once relieved of their coat, sheep tend to delight in a kind of playful madness.

“But she dirtied your dress, a-and took your apple,” The man flusters, giving up on the goat, who is openly mocking him with her steady stare. He knows – and you know – that if he makes one step towards her, she’ll be playfully bouncing away. “I’m afraid I’ve only dried fruit and meat to offer as replacement.”

“I’m always dirty.” You say, and then feel hot with the innuendo the sentence carries. “I mean, from tending the flock. And it was only the core. She is welcome to it. Please, do not worry.” When you smile at him, it’s a soft and genuine thing, and he seems taken aback by it. He still does not meet your gaze.

“I thank you for your kindness, then, my lady. I’ll just—Lil’ Bleater, _no!_ ”

You look down at the hill as the Witcher threads his hands into his hair, heaving out a sigh of frustration. The goat is now firmly in the middle of your sheep – who are initially wary, but curious creatures that they are, begin to sniff and nudge her. She seems delighted to have made new friends. Again, you want to laugh, but the man’s expression is so forlorn that you cannot.

“Is that her name? Lil’ Bleater?” You ask, as you place your harp down so you might stand.

“Yes, it’s… um. Because she… bleats.” The Witcher offers lamely, and you idle beside him as you watch the two species get acquainted. You have no ram – that would be folly in spring, uncontrollable with the rut – and his cream-and-tan striped goat begins to graze with the ladies. “Ah, _fuc—_ damn.”

“Well, she makes friends easily.” You muse, “But I fear my sheep will scatter if you try to fetch her.”

He draws in on himself, then, and you can guess why. Because you’ve pointed out his difference. Witcher. _Outcast._ Absently, he brushes the scars on his face, and then flinches his hand away as if they truly do burn. You feel an urge to touch his arm, to comfort him, but he’s so skittish that you don’t dare.

“I simply mean because my sheep are used to _me_ , Sir Witcher.” You continue, your voice lower, “They don’t trust others that approach. Gods, they’ve run away at the sight of children they don’t recognise, stupid things they can be.”

He relaxes slightly. “The children, or the sheep?” There’s a streak of humour in his pleasant voice, and you laugh.

“I’ll let you decide.” You shoot a glance at him, and for a moment, he meets your eyes. You feel something magnetic pulse between you, but then he’s turning his attention back to the animals. “Would you like me to fetch her?” Stooping, you pick up your harp.

“I’m not sure you’ll have success.” He mutters, “She’s stubborn.”

“Ah, well. It’s a good thing that I am, too.” Taking a few steps down the hill, you slow about six feet away from the flock, who glance up at you casually, before returning to their sheeply activities. Lil’ Bleater eyes you cautiously. You kneel so you’ll be at her level, balance the harp, and begin to pluck at it.

The song you sing is soft, pleasant. Your voice isn’t blessed by the Gods by any means, but it’s steady and sweet. It’s not the type of tune to be played in a tavern, surrounded by ale-stained men and women in teasingly low-cut dresses. You wrote it yourself; it’s more like a lullaby, with lyrics about cloudless blue skies and rolling fields of daisies ruffled by the breeze. The sheep begin to wander closer to you out of habit, enjoying your presence and the familiar song. Lil’ Bleater is influenced by their mood, and follows. Still singing, you reach out and pet her, finding a place behind her left ear that she enjoys being rubbed. There’s always a place.

You begin to rise slowly, humming, still petting her. And then you step back, one foot at a time, up the hill. You never cease the singing, or your touch, and as if bewitched, the goat follows you. The sheep remain at the foot, mistrusting the Witcher. By the time you’ve run through the song twice, you have Lil’ Bleater at the top of the hill again, and you kneel, petting her more thoroughly. She’s calmed from her defiant outburst, and seems content to stand at her owner’s side once more.

“Wow.” The Witcher breathes, “You have quite a talent.”

You feel your skin grow warm at the praise. “I can charm a goat? I’d hardly call that a talent, Sir Witcher.”

“Eskel.” He says, “My name. It’s Eskel.”

“Eskel and Lil’ Bleater.” You smile, “The dynamic duo. I daresay your talents are far superior to mine. Your kind keep my flock safer, and I am thankful for it.”

He runs a hand through his hair, and if you didn’t know better, you’d think he was shy. “We must follow The Path.” He shrugs, “I am glad you’ve no trouble.”

Nodding, you ruffle his goat’s fur once more, and then raise yourself to a stand. “Well, Eskel. If you’re ever in need of… a goat sitter, I can often be found around here. Both you and Lil’ Bleater are welcome.”

Again, that fluster of uncertainty. It hurts you somewhere; are people truly _so_ unkind to him? You’ve given up part of an apple and some of your time, and he seems so taken aback by it. But after a moment, he nods slowly.

“What is… _your_ name, my lady?” He ventures, and you can tell the question is asked with courage and a genuine curiosity.

You want to see him again. You aren’t sure why. The offer of ‘goat sitting’ might not be enough to tempt him; perhaps he enjoys games. “You’ve three guesses, Eskel. Ask me when you next drop by.” Lil’ Bleater nudges your skirts, and you giggle, petting her.

“Fen.” He blurts out, and you click your tongue.

“Now you’ve only two! _Think_ on it.”

He purses his lips together, and you see the debate on his rugged features. And then he nods. When he begins to walk away, Lil’ Bleater follows.

You watch until they are out of sight.

—————

When you next meet the Witcher and his goat, your sheep are a handful. You’ve herded them into a smaller area where they can be managed, because they are freshly shorn and drunk with the weightless feeling of Spring fever. You’re doing your best to check the ewes that you’ve marked for breeding, to ensure they are healthy. Their backsides are still bright with a temporary purple dye. You’re trying to soothe an enthusiastic younger sheep when you realise your flock has an addition – one with horns, one that absolutely delights in the play-time that is unfolding around you. The sheep remember her, and she’s joyously greeted into their fold again. You stand, and see Eskel idling a respectful distance away, remembering that his presence will spook your flock. Gratefully, you grin, and weave your way through the chaos, leaving the animals to butt heads and frisk about and munch of the fresh carrots and alfalfa that you’ve spread about for them to forage.

“Well met, Eskel!” You enthuse, wiping your hands on your skirts. You’re a little sweaty from the high sun, and your hair is teased wild, but you’re comforted by the fact that he’s ever-so slightly dusty too, possibly from travel.

“Well met… Flora?” He narrows one eye. You grin, and shake your head.

“Do you think I was born to be a shepherdess?” You tease, “That my parents named me after the land with the wild hopes that I’d someday climb the ladders of fortune and become a renowned sheep-tamer?”

“No,” He rushes out, apologetic, “Forgive me. It’s just—you. You remind me of…” He frowns, and you feel that pull again; this time, you do gently touch his elbow. He flinches at the contact, and you withdraw.

“Hey,” You soothe, “I was joking. You’ve not offended me.”

He relaxes at that, and nods, casting an eye over the flock. They’re still frolicking, Lil’ Bleater amongst them. “Shorn, I see. Good yield of wool?”

You nod. “I’ll make enough coin to stock up on hay and other important things for the winter. If I’m lucky, we’ll have healthy lambs in a month or so.”

“The ones marked with purple?” Eskel asks, and again, you nod. “That must be…”

“Hard work,” You supply, “But spring lambs are very sweet. Parting with the boys when they are weaned is always difficult, though.” Shaking your head, you gesture to a nearby patch of shade. “May I tempt you with some lunch, Eskel?”

“It isn’t fair,” He huffs, “You know my name, and I don’t have the privilege of yours.”

Your skirts billow out as you sit, and you smile secretively. “You still have one guess.” You open a basket and begin to pull out fresh bread, thickly sliced sausage, and creamy cheese, as well as strawberries.

“I’m not wasting it.” He decides, and after you gesture for him to do so, he sits. You can tell by the way he glances at the food that he hasn’t had anything fresh or decent for awhile, most likely, and so you portion out more than half onto the napkin you’ve brought, settling it directly into his lap so he cannot refuse.

“Then I suppose you’ll have to call me ‘Sheep Girl’,” You shrug, “Many of the townsfolk do, anyway. Even those that know my name.”

“No.” He refuses, as he picks up the gooey cheese. When it hits his tongue, his train of thought is derailed momentarily; he moans, and the sound goes straight to your nethers. You distract yourself with a strawberry and hope he can’t tell that you’re blushing for a different reason now. “Good Gods, did you make this?”

“Yes.” You lick a drop of strawberry juice from your lower lip, and swear you see the cat-pupil of his eyes dilate for half-a-second. “I’ve a friend who keeps dairy cows. She taught me.”

“She taught you _well_.” Eskel enthuses, and looks disappointed when he realises he’s practically inhaled his portion of cheese. You laugh, and give him yours. “No, I can’t—”

“I’ve more at home, Eskel.” You assure him, “It’s rare for me to enjoy company. Please.”

He meets your gaze, then, and it’s not fleeting. You see so much in the smelt of his irises; turmoil and fatigue and guilt. But there’s something _else_ there, something softer. He nods in thanks.

“Clover.” He says, and you sigh dramatically.

“Well, that’s all your guesses—”

“It’s not a guess.” He corrects, and you raise your eyebrows at him in a challenge. “It’s a nickname. Clover, because…” Again, he palms that scar. “Because I was lucky to run into you.” The last part is quiet, but it makes your stomach all fluttery, and you have to hide your schoolgirl-giddy grin into a piece of bread.

“Oh.” You accept, “Then… then I suppose… yes. I like it. I haven’t had a nice nickname before.”

In the area below, you watch Lil’ Bleater groom the face of one of your ewes; partly out of affection, and partly because she has carrot stuck to her mouth. The goat is an opportunist. You like her.

“Really?” Eskel asks, confused, “Why not? You’re—” He clears his throat. “I mean, if _I_ were a boy…” He winces, second-guessing everything he says, and ultimately, he stuffs his mouth with bread.

“When I was little,” You divulge, “There was an awful fire at my homestead. I lost my parents, my brother. Our town’s elderly shepherd – he pulled me screaming from the flames.” Cautiously, you lift the hem of your skirts, just a bit; the skin above your booted feet is scarred from the old burns. They extend all the way up to your thighs, but he needn’t see that. After you’ve revealed your secret, you settle your dress back down. “Children are cruel. I suppose I am lucky, in that I can hide my scarring, but… I know what it is like, Eskel. How it itches. How you can’t forget.”

He’s gone tense. He’s staring at your legs, although they are covered again, and for a moment you wonder if you’ve said too much. If he finds you revolting, as so many others do. Nervously, you pick at your fingers in the silence, about to fill it with something trivial and meaningless, before he catches your gaze again.

“I’m sorry.” He says, sincerely. You blink back sudden tears, and nod.

“I was young,” You try to wave it off, “It was long ago.”

“That doesn’t make it any less of a tragedy.” He notes, “I am sorry you’ve known cruelty.”

You wipe at the traitor tears, and force a smile. “Look at me – a handsome man pays me some mind and here I am, reduced to tears. You must think me awfully foolish.”

“Not at all,” His voice is low, “Only a bit deluded. _Handsome_ isn’t the word I’d use.”

“Then I am afraid we must argue over who is the deluded one, here.” You’re leaning in, without really meaning to, and so is he. You feel something electric arc between you. His breath is a warm whorl against your waiting lips.

And then hooves. There are hooves, and the basket is upturned, and the ends of your strawberries are being devoured. Lil’ Bleater is unrepentant in her mood-killing, standing with both front hooves on Eskel’s lap. The Witcher looks like he wants to strangle her. You can’t help but laugh.

“I guess she doesn’t like to share.” You muse, and Eskel grunts. He tries to wrestle the goat away, but she’s stubborn. Casting your gaze down at your flock, you note the position of the sun, and their gradual shift closer and closer to your home, to the barn; they know the routine. It surprises you that you’ve been relaxing with the Witcher for so long.

“I am going to _shave you_.” Eskel threatens, and Lil’ Bleater does what she must do best; she bleats. You giggle again, picking up the basket, and the napkin.

“I must see my flock inside, Eskel. It’s getting later, and I’ve much to do before sundown.” The sadness in his eyes must reflect your own, because you tack on, “You… you have one guess left.”

He smiles for the first time; it’s a little lopsided due to his scarring, but the sight of it melts you. “I do, don’t I?” He can’t disguise the optimism in his tone. You’re asking him to come back.

“Best make it a winner, or else I’ll be Clover forever!” You call, as you run after your flock, turning to wave.

He returns the gesture, and you have to force yourself to walk away from the Witcher and his goat.

—————

There are lambs when you see him next. Fluffy, soft, excitable lambs. It’s your favourite time of year; they’ve arrived a little late, but they are here. Six new babies, four girls and two boys. The mothers are dozy and content to graze, and the others keep a watchful eye on the young members, nosing them when they get too rambunctious. It’s mid-afternoon, and you want to sit out in the sun for as long as possible, sleepy with your harp and your humming.

“New song?” A familiar voice tickles your ears, and you squeak your surprise. Eskel holds his hands up in apology. “Sorry, I… Witcher training. I walk softly. Bleater is usually ahead of me.”

“It’s alright.” You assure him, taking a breath to calm your racing heart. You look out for the goat, and sure enough, she comes galloping behind him shortly, mouth still full of roadside buttercups. She pauses beside you – to see if you have any food, you think – but then she’s bounding towards the flock. You watch to see her interaction with the lambs, but she’s instinctively careful of them.

“Six babies.” Eskel notes, still standing awkwardly. You pat the ground, and he sits. “They’re so _fluffy_.”

You smile at the marvel in his voice, and nod. “Would you like to hold one, later?”

He frowns. “I’ll just scare them, on account of…” When he trails off, you ache again. It goes unspoken: _‘because I am different’_.

“Lambs don’t scare like ewes do.” You say, “They’ll like you. And Lil’ Bleater likes you, doesn’t she?”

“Lil’ Bleater is an idiot.” Eskel snorts, but his sentiment is heavy with affection.

“ _I_ think she’s a lady with fine tastes.” You insist, and boldly, you reach over to place your hand atop his. You feel him shiver, but he doesn’t jerk away. He looks down at the contact. “Although her hooves need trimming. And she could do with a wash.”

Eskel looks a little guilty. “The tool I had for her hooves broke. If you’ve a spare one, I’d be happy to pay coin for it.”

“Oh.” You pull your hand back. _That’s_ why he’s here. Not for you. You chew your lower lip. “Yes, of course I have spares. There’s no need for coin. I probably keep too many tools. Just in case, you know.” You’re rambling, because you’re embarrassed. Now _you_ are the one that won’t meet his eye.

“And,” His voice is a whisper, “I have a guess.”

That catches your attention, you fidget with the hem of your dress. “You do?”

“I do.” He watches Lil’ Bleater pull up an entire patch of grass, dirt and all. “But… if I speak it… what if I am wrong?”

You think you understand what he’s saying. If he uses his third guess, will he be welcome back? Will he have an excuse to see you again? You shrug your shoulders slowly. “What if you… _don’t_ guess?” You return, and then your eyes meet his hesitantly.

In the afternoon sun, his gaze is ethereal, like the glitter of treasure far too ancient to be priced. The slow paint of the lazy rays bathe him golden, all of him; eyes and skin and hair and scars. He’s beautiful. You feel your heart flutter like a restless sparrow in the cage of your ribs. Your breath is high up in your lungs, quickened.

He answers by reaching over, pulling you to him, meeting your lips in a kiss. It’s a hesitant thing, soft and careful, until he tastes your enthusiasm on your tongue, and then he’s weaving his fingers into the hair at the back of your head and kissing you with all the warmth of springtime, with all the precious meaning of gilded promise. You cup his face, thumb the line of his jaw, and whimper into the embrace until the rudeness of oxygen forces you to part, but even then, you don’t move far. You’re both smiling.

“Please,” You beg, “Never… _never_ guess.”

His laughter is a short rumble. He kisses you again, once, twice; small chaste meetings, two names guessed wrongly. “Clover.” He murmurs. You nuzzle his cheek.

And you _do_ feel lucky.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I can also be found on tumblr: @inber


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